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Los Angeles Times
27-06-2025
- General
- Los Angeles Times
Are you eating the crispy rice at the bottom of the pot? 13 L.A. spots to try nurungji
After a raucous night out in my 20s, the real afterparty was always at BCD Tofu House — hunched over bubbling Korean tofu stew and a sizzling-hot stone bowl of steamed rice. After I'd scooped most of it out, a server would pour warm tea into the bowl, loosening the rice clinging stubbornly to the bottom. Scraping up those crispy-chewy bits of scorched rice, known in Korean as nurungji, quickly became my favorite part of the meal. Long before electric rice cookers, Koreans traditionally cooked rice over an open flame in an iron cauldron called a gamasot. As it steamed, the bottom layer would crisp up against the hot metal, forming golden-brown nurungji. 'Today, nurungji simply means the crispy layer of rice that forms at the bottom of any pot or cooking appliance,' says Sarah Ahn, who co-wrote the Korean cookbook ' Umma ' with her mother, Nam Soon Ahn. 'Personally, and within Korean culture, I see nurungji as a deeply nostalgic food, especially for Koreans of my mom's generation.' Advertisement Chef and cookbook author Debbie Lee adds, 'Sometimes it's intentional, sometimes it's from overcooking — what I call a great culinary accident.' Korea isn't alone in its love for scorched rice. Persian tahdig is the crust that forms at the bottom of the pot, flipped and served with the crispy layer on top. Chinese guoba is crispy rice paired with saucy stir-fries to soak up every bit of flavor. In West Africa, kanzo refers to the caramelized layer left behind after cooking, often found in dishes like jollof rice. Spain's socarrat forms the base of well-executed paella. And in Korea, nurungji is endlessly versatile — enjoyed on its own, steeped in hot water or tea as sungnyung (thought to be a soothing palate cleanser and digestive aid), or transformed into nurungji-tang, where the rice becomes the crunchy base for a light broth with seafood or vegetables. With its nutty, toasted flavor that highlights the grain's natural aroma, nurungji is comfort food born out of practicality. 'Like so much of Korean food, it represents our resourcefulness — nothing goes to waste! — and our ability to find flavor in humble things,' says Sarah. Rather than discarding it, Koreans embraced the crunchy layer as a snack or meal. Advertisement 'My parents are from Pyongyang and fled during the war,' says Lee. 'My mother told me that they'd find an abandoned house to rest in, and nine times out of 10, there was rice. They lived off porridge, steamed rice, and ultimately nurungji as a snack.' SeongHee Jeong, chef and co-owner of Koreatown's Borit Gogae , remembers eating it sprinkled with sugar — a delicious treat when sweets were scarce. While there's no single way to make it today, Sarah and her mom swear by the traditional method. 'Nothing compares to the flavor of rice cooked in a gamasot over a wood fire,' Sarah says. 'That taste is so iconic, you'll even find packaged snacks trying to replicate it.' In L.A., some restaurants keep it old-school by serving nurungji simply steeped in tea or hot water, while others are getting creative with it. Think: nurungji risotto at Jilli, an iced nurungji crema at Bodega Park or a fried chicken and nurungi dish at Fanny's. At her Joseon pop-up last year, Lee even spun it into a nurungji crème brûlée. 'It's truly amazing how humble ingredients born from hardship always find their way back,' says Sarah. Advertisement Here are 13 of the best restaurants in L.A. serving nurungji in both traditional and unexpected ways.
Refinery29
21-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Refinery29
Kristen Kish's Return To Her Birth Country Was Beautifully Complicated
When Kristen Kish, winner of Top Chef Season 10 and now its host, traveled to South Korea in June 2022, she was nervous. Adopted at four months by an American family, the celebrity chef had never returned to her birth country — and wasn't sure what she would find, feel, or even understand about a place that was hers and yet also wasn't. 'I thought I was supposed to feel this wave of emotion of 'Oh my god, I'm home.' I thought I was supposed to look out into the world of Korean people and feel like I belonged. But it didn't happen,' she tells me over a lavish spread at Borit Gogae, a cozy Korean restaurant in Los Angeles' Koreatown that specializes in banchan. 'I felt more like a tourist and a visitor, which I certainly was and am. But I felt guilty for not feeling those feelings.' It took her a couple days to realize she couldn't force a moment of emotional revelation. 'Me not feeling anything doesn't mean that I have any less respect for where I come from. I need time to discover it,' she says. But there was one moment that gave her what she didn't know she needed. While visiting a hand-carved stamp shop, she decided to get one made with her Korean name. When the shopowner asked her what it was, she hesitated, nervous to tell her adoption story. 'I didn't want to feel like I was being judged. But he said, 'You belong here,' she pauses, her voice catching. 'That for me was the moment of the trip.' The story didn't make it into her debut memoir, Accidentally On Purpose, released last month, but it speaks to the heart of her improbable journey — one shaped by chance and intention, clarity and ambiguity. In the book, Kish shares more about growing up as a Korean adoptee in a white Midwestern family, navigating her queer and Korean identities, and rising to become one of the most recognized chefs on television. In our first episode of Fam Style, Kish and I sit down to talk about how Korean food has helped her connect to her heritage, the idea of belonging, and the layered journey of coming home — all over a meal that tastes like a memory. Fam Style spotlights Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) changemakers across entertainment, food, art, and culture. Over shared meals at AAPI-owned restaurants, we sit down with creators, artists, and innovators to talk about identity, ambition, community, and the stories that shape us. Through intimate conversations and the language of food, we highlight the nuance, joy, and resilience within the AAPI experience — one dish at a time.
